Scarlet Stars
by Jameson Matthew Williams
Summary: At day, he's British rockstar Arthur Kirkland. At night, he's mass murderer Oliver Kirkland. With two identities comes two lovers... and only one choice. (1P IggyChu vs. 2P AsaKiku)
1. Prologue

Looking up at the girl wasn't too hard. Her long black hair was gorgeous, and she had smooth dark skin was smooth and pretty, but she had that scar across her face that looked like the Roman numeral for the number two that you couldn't really look away from. Her name was Reneè Moonweather, and she was a concert and tour manager. More specifically, my concert and tour manager. But this story isn't about Ms. Moonweather. This story is about me.

As they would have me say because of my British accent, my name is Kirkland. Arthur Kirkland. I was a British rockstar who did very few covers and mostly original songs. I'm quite possibly best known for my 1998 hit single, Your Valentine. You might have heard the lyrics once or twice:

 _The twinkle in your eyes; it's no surprise that you're just what I need, Pu_ _lling you through and into my life allowed me to be free!_ _So pick one out of the box and eat it, B_ _ut just please take the time..._ _To look and read the note on top,_ _It says, 'from your valentine'._

That song wasn't Reneè's personal favourite, though; that award goes to the song that was also the title of one of my albums, Fractured:

 _You dropped the jewel,_ _You broke the rule,_ _You robbed me of a cure!_ _I've lost my heart,_ _There is no restart,_ _My heart is fractured._

However, I think we should get off the topic of my music and my unusual manager. This isn't the important part of the story. The important part is what comes next, and all you need to do is move on to the next chapter to find out.


	2. Day One, January

It started midway through my career. I had just made it big by releasing my second album, In Your Hands. The song that got me big wasn't that song itself; it was just one of those songs with dull lyrics:

 _In your hands was my heart, Then you made a fist. In your hands, the pain did start, Torture, you could not resist..._

It wasn't weird, it was just one of those things you felt you've heard before. The one that got me going was much different. It wasn't Your Valentine; it was a song I titled Dear Monique.

 _Dear Monique, You were my Venus, Dear Monique, You're such a work of art. Dear Monique, You are my princess, And I'm sorry, For breaking your heart..._

I would get into the chorus, but I'm pretty sure you didn't pick this up to listen to my music. You came to find out what went wrong.

It started the night of December 31st, but that moment was very brief, and the major events didn't start until the new year, so I'm not going to bring that up until later, when it will be of importance.

The morning of January 1st (even more specifically, the second the New Year's Ball dropped, hitting midnight and deeming it a new year), I ended a concert that had gone on since noon the day before. I was parched, having drank barely anything before or during the concert. Reneè had me drinking before, during, and after every meal, but I only had a sore throat until about eight o'clock that morning.

When I was finally able to speak without clearing my throat or coughing, the first words I spoke were to Reneè: "I wrote a new song."

She sighed, rubbing her temples. "This one better be good."

I sighed, as well. However, I was disappointed and not angered, so our sighs sounded much different from one another in tone. "The last few times you told me that, you rejected my songs. And why? For being too..."

"Peppy. Not that I don't like them; the world just isn't all sunshine and rainbows."

I let out another sigh, this one out of irritation. "Reneè, please. Just this one."

"Fine." It wasn't too hard to see when old Scarface Ren had given up. "Just the one. It better be good."

What Reneè didn't know was that I had written this song for her; it was what she wanted and what I wanted all in one. I would've chuckled to myself at that moment, but that would've given me away, so I didn't do anything except get out my lyric sheets. Taking a breath in, I began to sing:

 _Feel it run down your hands with every slide... The inside instinct that you just can't hide..._

 _The blood drops, the screaming, it doesn't make me cry! I have bloodlust and I want to end a life! Taking a countdown, there's no way to resist! 'Cause I'm a killer, baby, and you're the next one on my hit list._

 _Hearing tortured screams only makes me crave more, I need more bloodshed, let the drops hit the floor. The total count of bodies; it goes up every day! Now I am wanted, but I'm still here to stay!_

 _The blood drops, the screaming, it doesn't make me cry! I have bloodlust and I want to end a life! Taking a countdown, there's no way to resist! 'Cause I'm a killer, baby, and you're the next one on my hit list._

 _The blood drops, the screaming, it doesn't make me cry! I have bloodlust and I want to end a life! Taking a countdown, there's no way to resist! 'Cause I'm a killer, baby, and you're the next one on my hit list._

I looked up at Reneè, wanting to see her reaction. Old Scarface's jaw was dropped and she began to scribble something on that notepad of hers. That notepad kept important notes, phone numbers, addresses... and song titles, venues, concert themes, and playlists. Basically put, I was kind of ecstatic to see Reneè pull out the notepad.

"Alright, Art." Did she know how much I hated that nickname? "You got yourself a deal."

I flashed her a bright smile.

* * *

I threw together my old outfit for that night's concert. My black leather pants that matched my boots that had a slight heel. I tucked my pant legs inside the boots, too, so my boots were more visible to the audience. I'd rather have everyone staring at my boots than at my pants. Then, I slapped on a shirt that had an infinity scarf neck and short sleeves (although I threw on a black long sleeved shirt beneath it) and a discoloured British flag pattern.

"Okay, Arthur," Reneè said to me, holding her clipboard and with her earpiece in her ear, "your playlist consists of Dear Monique, Instinct, Watching and Waiting, Just One Kiss, Water Under the Bridge, Long Time No See, and your new song..."

"I'm naming it 'Hit List'."

She nodded. "Alright." She flipped to a pahe in the notepad, erasing something (which was probably something along the lines of 'Art's new song') and scribbled down something else (which was more than likely the song title). "Good to know. Now... go get 'em, tiger."

I chuckled, strapping on my electric guitar. She was a beautiful, shiny, ruby red. I kept her so clean that you could look down in her and see your reflection perfectly. Her buttons were a silver colour and her strap was a beautiful black leather. I loved everything about my guitar. I know that makes me sound like an American country singer, but it's true.

I pulled an emerald green guitar pick out of my back pocket, strumming her one time. Still sounded beautiful as Yesterday. And just to confirm some things, I don't mean 'yesterday' as 'the day before'. I mean 'Yesterday' as in the song by The Beatles, the greatest rock band of all time. They were British, too, and I wamted to be what they were: legends and pioneers in rock music.

"You're on, Arthur. The guest number's done." Reneé stood to the side and parted the curtains to allow me to step through. I did so, and I was welcomed with cheers and applause from a loving audience. I readied my green guitar pick, waving and beginning to play.

" _Dear Monique..._ "


	3. Night One, January

The concert was (no one's surprise, really) a success, and I had fangirls trying to get up to me while I was performing onstage. I think I somewhat understood how John, George, Paul, and Ringo felt at that point, but I had to wait to receive the full experience because I didn't think I needed a six-foot-tall cage for protection as of yet. Everyone's favourite song was the one Reneè had just written in, which was Hit List. We decided to put that on my next album and do a double take to release it as a single.

It was that night that nothing would ever be the same.

There was a knock on my back door. Well, when I say back door, I mean the entrance to my dressing room. That place became my home away from home; it had furniture and a tiny fridge and even a cot. All I needed. Anyway, I looked over at the door in response to the knock. Shirtless and still in black pants, I stood up, setting my guitar on the couch and opening it. "Hello, Reneè."

She smiled. "I love the way you say my name." She chuckled, sitting next to my guitar on the couch. "That accent of yours is adorable."

"It's just a British accent. Nothing special."

"If you say so..."

"-and I do. So, what is it?"

"Budget cuts. We'll have to cancel your concert in Paris, as well as the ones in Warsaw, Vilnius, and Riga."

I froze. Four concerts... cancelled? Due to budget cuts?!

"BUDGET CUTS?!"

"I'm afraid so. In order to be able to do anything, we'll have to sell the album and hope it sells well."

So many thoughts were running through my head. " _How could you do this to me_? _Why did this even happen?! We had so much money!_ "

Then I noticed all the jewellery that she was wearing. A pair of sapphire earrings, a ruby necklace, and several golden rings bedazzled with expensive gems. She had... been spending all of the money for selfish reasons! That's why we always had to cut back a bit! But this time, she had gone too far. **Way** too far.

Sure, I had been internally screaming and thinking about my rants and raves before, but this had pushed everything over the edge. I stomped my foot loudly, causing her to stop adoring her expensively-painted nails and look over at me in questioning.

" **YOU WENCH! YOU'VE BEEN STEALING THE MONEY WE NEED TO RUN MY CAREER FOR YOUR OWN NE- NO, WANTS! I'M DONE WITH THIS BLOODY CRAP!**"

I pushed her off the couch and onto her face, seeing a stream of blood pour out of her nose (which had most likely broken upon hitting the hard wooden floor). I stomped on her back a few times over, growling. I heard her whimper, apologizing as she cried loud tears. I got off of her, taking a few steps away, but she didn't get up, more than likely from an inability to. I grumbled, flipping her over. Her face was no longer beautiful because she had been crying and there was blood running down her face, not to mention her dress was smeared with red.

I chuckled, going over to the kitchen-like section of my dressing room and grabbing a large knife. I slit her throat with an evil chuckle, watching the blood pour out of the wound. I stabbed her through the heart and made a holy cross on her stomach, carving her open. Watching the blood pour out of her was just... pleasing.

I don't know how I came up with the thought of what I did next, but (knowing she was obviously dead now) I dislocated her arm by stepping on her shoulder and pulling hard. When I heard the quiet 'pop', I sawed off her arm with the knife and sliced that in half on a cutting board, taking out the bones and chopping the flesh into little bite-size chunks. I let out another evil cackle as I pulled a muffin tin out of the cabinet, along with flour, eggs, sugar, butter, and milk.

This was going to be fun.

* * *

I poured the batter into the muffin pan's slots before putting it into the oven and starting the timer. As I waited for the cupcakes to bake, I collected all of Reneè's blood that I could manage, storing them in vials and tucking them away in the freezer so they would keep. I looked over and into the mirror.

Damn, I looked different.

My hair, which was once a pale shade of blond, was now a medium shade of pink. My emerald green eyes were now an ocean blue, and I was covered in blood. There was so much on me, it looked like I had just come out of a literal bloodbath! But I liked it. I liked the new me.

"Hello," I said to my reflection as if it was a whole other person on its own. "You're going to need a name, aren't you? You can't be Arthur Kirkland anymore." I chuckled, continuing to stare at my reflection. I giggled like a child upon seeing that I had bright red freckles on my cheeks.

"I think I'm going to call you something I like. Something I told myself I would name my own son one day. A name I've always liked: Oliver. You shall be... Oliver Kirkland."

* * *

What fun it was to be a killer.

Along with Old Scarface, I killed a total of nine people that night. Then I made muffins out of them before making handmade frosting and putting in their blood. I could sell those in addition to holding concerts. Then I would get the stains out of Reneè's dress, wash it, and sell it, along with some freshly polished jewelry. Selling boxes of the cupcakes at my concerts wouldn't work out too bad, actually; that was it! Tickets would go up a few dollars, sell the cupcakes afterwards (along with charging a few dollars for an autograph), and I would be rich in no time!

And they told you murderers were insane, didn't they?


	4. Day Two, January

After I had conceived all of my evil plans, made cannibal cupcakes (and packaged them away in goody boxes), and cleaned up the place, it was almost time for me to get dressed, get on the road and head to my next concert a few cities over. That was about when I realized that I just couldn't manage my career on my own. I needed to get a new manager, and quick. Problem was, I had to keep them out of the Cannibal Cupcakes (yes, that's what I'm calling them; just not publicly) and I couldn't tell them about what happened to Old Scarface.

That was really going to be the hard part. Technically and theoretically, I couldn't exactly hire a new career manager until I had a logical explanation as to what happened to my first one. And I couldn't exactly tell them I killed her and made cupcakes out of her and eight other people. In my mind, the analogy for this is more like trying to speak Russian when you only know French. You either spend a lot of time on trying to find a way, or you deem it impossible and pack your bags.

At this rate, I really wanted to take the second option, but I needed to take the first if I wanted to do anything with my career. The problem was, again, finding a logical explanation for her no longer being with me or simply just not being my manager, along with finding someone to replace her and hoping they actually fall for whatever little tale I weave. Then there was also the fact that (aside from the entire reason I killed her in the first place) Reneè was a wonderful manager, and knew exactly what she was doing and how to handle my career.

But if there was one thing I knew, I needed to find a replacement- and quick!

* * *

"Again, I thank you so much for coming in on such short notice, Mr. Wàng."

"It's no trouble at all. And, please, call me Yào. Yours?"

"Oh, Arthur. Just... no nicknames."

After some scoping out for a few hours, I eventually found myself in the company of Yào Wàng, a Chinese immigrant who could all too easily be mistaken for a female instead of what he really was. There was really no 'first things first' thing the second he walked through the door; there was just a lot of introduction and explanation. The talks weren't all boring, because we threw in little jokes and ideas as we spoke. It reminded me of my times with Reneè, but I will admit that I don't miss her at all now.

"So... I know the public's favourite song that ever came from 'the wonders of Arthur Kirkland', according to charts, comments, and the number of likes on the music video. But the question forming inside my head at the moment is... what about you? What is your favourite song of yours?"

"Well, that does tend to vary a bit. But my favourite at the moment is a more recent one I wrote that I played at my most recent concert- the one in Avignon?- but I haven't released it on an album as of yet."

"Would you mind playing it for me?"

"No sir," I responded, resisting the urge to joke around and call him 'ma'am' as I picked up my guitar, laying safely in its wicked awesomely decorated leather case. It looked like a British flag, except Reneè had used a permanent marker to write some of my song lyrics in the lines, so that way it looked like it was made for me. And it did. The guitar herself was awesome, too, but you already know what she looks like.

I reached into my back pocket and pulled out my green guitar pick, beginning to sing as I played:

 _Feel it run down your hands with every slide... The inside instinct that you just can't hide..._

 _The blood drops, the screaming, it doesn't make me cry! I have bloodlust and I want to end a life! Taking a countdown, there's no way to resist! 'Cause I'm a killer, baby, and you're the next one on my hit list._

 _Hearing tortured screams only makes me crave more, I need more bloodshed, let the drops hit the floor. The total count of bodies; it goes up every day! Now I am wanted, but I'm still here to stay!_

 _The blood drops, the screaming, it doesn't make me cry! I have bloodlust and I want to end a life! Taking a countdown, there's no way to resist! 'Cause I'm a killer, baby, and you're the next one on my hit list._

 _The blood drops, the screaming, it doesn't make me cry! I have bloodlust and I want to end a life! Taking a countdown, there's no way to resist! 'Cause I'm a killer, baby, and you're the next one on my hit list._

When I looked up at Yào, his jaw was dropped, and he was entirely speechless. In all honesty, I had expected a reaction along these lines, considering the song just wasn't ny normal style. The problem was, I didn't know what he was going to say to me when he regained his ability to speak to me.

It was three or four minutes later when he did. "Wow. The feeling I was getting from that... it was like a combination of Disturbed and Evanescence."

If there was I thing I knew, in my mind (along with in the pit of my stomach) that was the reaction I least expected from a man like Yào. But it was exactly what I was thinking, too. And that's just what I told him. word for word.

"That's exactly what I was thinking, Yào!"

He smiled. "Wow, we do have a lot in common!"

Then we started talking. And I pulled out beer and then we were drinking and talking, but we never got drunk in the process. But the next thing I knew, I had taken Yào into my private bedroom and our clothes ended up in a pile on the floor while we laid next to each other.

Yào panted. "...wow."

I panted, as well, unable to catch my breath. "Wow... what?"

"That... was great. I... I never..."

"Me neither."

He smiled, still panting as he pulled me close, putting his head and upper torso on top of my own. He kissed my shoulder.

"Can we make this work?"

"Yes. It also makes it... much easier to work as the manager and the managed."

He smiled, giving a curt nod and a kiss on the forehead to follow.


	5. Night Two, January

It was late when I woke up (Yào was still asleep). I needed to start with a private kill, otherwise, I wouldn't turn into Oliver right away and my identity would be exposed. I needed to do something...

* * *

The first thing I did was run to a nearby pet shop and get around 30 or 40 live mice (I don't remember the exact number, but I think it was somewhere within that range). That way I could kill one or two, turn into Oliver, toss out the bodies one way or another, and still have something else to kill for the next night. And I could let them loose if I ever had my suspicions that Yào was up, so if he saw, he would assume I was killing a mouse I saw in the room or general living space (although I would be killing them rather violently, it would still be a mouse).

I took a mouse out of the cage I bought for them, using the knife I used to kill Reneè to chop off the mouse's head. Watching the blood pour out of the opening where the mouse's head was connected to its neck made me chuckle out some kind of disturbing pleasure like the murderer I was beneath; like what Oliver was as a whole. I looked over in the mirror. Pink hair, blue eyes, paler skin.

Check.

* * *

I came back lugging seven bodies in a sack over my shoulder. In fact, one of them was a child. I wanted to see something; if a child's blood or skin tasted better in baked goods than the average adult's. I began baking around midnight, but I had an intrusion around then.

"Arthur? My head hurts like the dickens. Do you have any- WHO THE HECK ARE YOU?!"

So one of the things I wanted to know was now a question with an answer that I had yet to discover or receive. When I was disguised as Oliver, did anyone have any sort of suspicion that I was anything close to myself? In order to test this, I decided to be direct and approach him.

I chuckled evilly, taking the tip of my knife and putting it to Yào's neck, careful not to actually harm him. I ckicked my tongue, as if to make a noise of unamusement or to show some form of disapproval.

"Huh," I said, heightening my pitch a little so that it didn't sound like I was actually just myself in disguise. Yào didn't seem to notice, so I guess I was on the right track. "I guess I'll let you live. But one day, you'll all be fearing the name that is mine own."

I stepped away, opening the door and walking out. I was about to leave entirely and add onto the body count a bit before Yào stopped me by putting a hand on my shoulder. It was a lot different from when he put a hand to Arthur's shoulder. With Arthur, he was gentle. With Oliver, he just simply didn't care.

"Who the hell are you, strawberry?"

Strawberry?

I jumped away before turning to face him. "Oliver." I ran off like a thief in the night... except I was a murderer.

* * *

I managed to kill four more people by the night's end, meaning that I had brought the night's body count up to 11 bodies in total. When I got back, I finished baking the Cannibal Cupcakes rather quickly and boxed them up. Then I used my large freezer to store the larger bodies in, putting a password on the door so that way no one could access it but me. I didn't really want to hide anything from Yào, but this secret life was a major exception. I don't think he would approve of me being a serial killer in addition to my rockstar life.

As light shone through the window, I looked into the mirror, noting that I had turned back into myself, Arthur. I sighed a bit before smirking, as I had come up with a great plan. I pulled out two cupcakes, one of which was made with adult blood and flesh and one of which was made with adolescent blood and flesh.

I placed the cupcakes, which were identical, onto identical plates on the dining room table. When Yào came downstairs, I presented him with the plates. He was incredibly shocked. It made me smile a bit to know I could make him happy so easily.

"Arthur! You shouldn't have!"

I smiled. "I'm testing something. Taste 'A' for me." I watched him take a bite. "Taste 'B' now." He looked at me for a short amount of time.

"If you're asking which one's better, I say cupcake 'A'."

I smiled, knowing that cupcake "A" was the one with the adolescent blood and flesh put into it. Therefore, my hypothesis was correct. This also meant another thing: I had to stop killing adults and teenagers and start killing children instead. It was going to be both harder and even more a crime than normal killing. This also meant that Yào was going to have to go to sleep earlier so that I could go out sooner and that he had to sleep in a bit more so I could prepare everything, the same.

However, I had to use the bodies I already had first. No more killing sprees for a bit.

Just my Yào-Yào.

I nodded. "Okay. Just testing recipes."

"How did you make these? Last time I had your cooking..."

"I've improved." I smiled, maling him do the same.

He got up close to me and ran his fingers gently over the exposed area of my chest. "Want to go... have some fun... while we're awake?" he asked seductively.

I chuckled like an old man who was liking what he was getting from a young woman. "Of course."

We touched lips softly.


	6. Day Three, January

I woke to Yáo yawning and sitting up, himself. He stretched, standing and sneezing. I went protective and immediately put the back of my hand to his forehead. He sighed as his head hanged. I gasped.

"Yáo, baby! You're burning up!"

He sniffed, his nose stuffy. "Could you get me some medicine?"

"I've got you covered, sweetheart." I kissed his warm forehead and went to the kitchen, where I kept medication in a cabinet. As I opened said cabinet, a scream rang out, making me gasp and fall back.

I clutched my chest as I, myself, began to burn up and my heart began to swell. My heart was racing and my breathing was a mess. I began to sweat, hyperventilating as I struggled to breathe. Then the pain stopped. I had just had a heart attack.

I carefully stood, trying to breathe. I was way too young to have a heart attack; I was just approaching twenty at that time. I looked over in the mirror to check myself, and I caught a strange glance.

That pink hair.

Piercing bright blue eyes.

That terrifying devilish grin.

Oliver had appeared in the mirror before my very eyes. I became scared, fearing that my supposed heart attack had brought him out of my subconscious, but I grabbed a tuft of hair and stared at it. Pale blond, like my hair always was (unless I was Oliver, but still). I obviously couldn't see if my eyes were still green, but that didn't matter. I was seeing Oliver in the mirror, despite the fact he only came out when I killed or saw death.

"What the hell?" I muttered to myself.

"You ask yourself what I'm doing here," Oliver said, despite the fact my own lips didn't move. I saw him pouring a cup of tea and sipping it, which was something I obviously wasn't doing as I just sat there, bewildered. "You should be asking why you're not here."

"What do you mean?"

"I'm trapped back there. I want out. I want to pick up my knife. I want to kill. Let me out, Arthur."

"No! I have enough bodies!! I don't need to turn into you!"

"No, no, no, Arthur. You don't turn into, transform into, or become me. I am Oliver. You are Arthur. Only I am me. You were never me. You will never be me. What happens is I consume you. I take your body. I need you."

"So..."

"You're my puppet. Although 'poppet' sounds much better."

"Sounds way too affectionate for my standards."

"I want you to LET ME OUT!!! Poppet."

"What the hell is wrong with you?!"

"WhY wON't yOU leT mE OUt?!!!" He banged on the mirror. I thought he was going to break it, but we never did.

"NO!! NO!!! I'M NOT GOING TO BE YOUR SLAVE!!!"

"Who said you were my slave?"

"You did!! You said you take me; that you need me!!"

"No, poppet." Oliver grinned when he said it (but I simply scoffed). "You are the host; the puppet; the dummy. You're not a slave. You're the exact opposite." His grin widened, showing off his razor-sharp teeth and the blood spatters covering them, as if he had just eaten one of our cupcakes.

I'll admit it. They were ours. He killed them and he baked them, but I definitely gave him the idea by killing Reneé in the first place, didn't I? I wasn't going to take all the credit if I knew Oliver had a mind of his own and that he wasn't just an alias I had created to stay out of trouble.

"No. If anything, you're my property and not the other way around. My mind- me- brought you into this world, and I can take you out of it just the same way."

"Don't play that game on me! Now that I'm here, I'm never gone!! You can't get rid of me!! You're stuck with me, Arthur!! STUCK WITH ME!!!! STUCK!!!!"

I had finally had enough. With all the force I could bare, I took a weapon of some kind (not my beloved guitar, for she would break, and I could not risk that on tour) and shattered the mirror into several pieces, causing the frame to fall off the wall and make a loud crash in addition to the one that had occurred before with the mirror. I looked into the one of the shards, still seeing Oliver staring back up at me.

"You're stuck with me, poppet. Face the facts."

"Face the facts."

"Face the facts."

I heard his voice continue to echo around me through every shard. With every single shard of glass, I saw that devilish grin smiling up at me. By attempting to destroy my problems, I realized that I had only made it worse. Much, much worse. I picked up a broom, vigorously sweeping every little piece of the mirror out of the window (including the frame, which had a few shards of glass on the sides where the mirror used to reside the way a picture would in its own sort of frame). I swept the entire room for what had to be almost thirty minutes, almost six or seven times over before I was absolutely sure Oliver wasn't going to lie to me again today. If there was one thing I knew, the floor was definitely clean when I was done.

Yáo came downstairs, immediately sensing something wrong (it was more than likely the absence of the mirror, but what was I to know). His face was red, his hair was a mess, sweat was dripping from his brow, and he was only wearing a pair of sweatpants and that long bandage that wrapped around his torso which covered a large scar. If there was one thing I knew about Yáo right now, he was literally sick and definitely worried.

"Arthur what happened? I heard you yelling, and there was a crash, and you've been downstairs for so long..."

I quickly pulled the medicine out of the cabinet and gave it to him. "There, dear. Take it and get some rest."

"Maybe you should get some of that, too."

"Yeah... maybe I should."


End file.
